


Don't Cry for Me, Little Angel

by maychorian



Series: Supernatural Shorts [21]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Emotionally Hurt Castiel (Supernatural), Gen, Grief, Human Castiel (Supernatural)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-18
Updated: 2019-06-18
Packaged: 2020-05-14 08:22:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,485
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19269397
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/maychorian/pseuds/maychorian
Summary: The angels leave, and Castiel cries.Originally posted to LJ on 3/27/10.





	Don't Cry for Me, Little Angel

The first night after the angels leave earth doesn't exactly go awesome.  
  
Awesomely? Is that a word?  
  
Anyway, it doesn't go great, which Dean supposes is kind of to be expected, but still. He didn't expect it to go  _this_  bad.  
  
Badly?  
  
Whatever. Dean is not worrying about grammar right now.  
  
This future was supposed to be better. He has Sam with him this time, and they got the Colt like  _really early_  in the whole five-year-plan thing. But then they lost Jo and Ellen and the Colt didn't kill the Devil and the Apocalypse rolled on and Castiel kept losing his shit, bit by tiny bit, which is a stupid poem and Dean is never ever saying any of this aloud.  
  
At least with Michael gone the temptation to say "yes" has gone with him. Because, seriously, this might be the closest Dean has come yet to breaking down and going all, "Yes, yes, fine, I'll be your fucking condom, just take care of my family and make sure they're okay and you can let the rest of the world go hang."  
  
Seriously. He would be tempted.  
  
It's not even like that this is that big of a thing. It shouldn't be as...awful...as it is. It's not a city being taken over by Croats (which are definitely around already, fuck you very much), War turning entire towns against each other, Death bringing up zombies to mess with the remaining hunters, or any of the other horrors they've faced over the preceding couple of years and will continue to face until they find a way to kill or contain Lucifer. It's not anything like that.  
  
It's just...Castiel.  
  
Crying.  
  
He's been crying for hours now. Freaking  _hours,_  not that Dean is keeping track. There was a scary moment, back before it started. They were walking through a forest, tracking a nest of vampires, and all of sudden Cas just collapsed. Just boom, smack, down on the ground, like he'd been shot and none of them heard the crack of the gun. Sam fell to his knees next to him without hesitation and Dean's heart jumped into his throat and vampires, man, who cared about vampires?  
  
Just par for the course, Dean figured. First Cas lost his ability to heal, then he couldn't exorcise demons, then he couldn't time-travel, then he couldn't see all that invisible stuff, then he couldn't even fly. He was still stronger than a human, way smarter and quicker, able to do things Dean and Sam couldn't even imagine doing. But he wore down at the edges, lost his angel shine, a few chips of paint. Got some dings in the finish, and away faded that oomph, that special growl in the engine.  
  
And then he landed on the ground in the forest, slack and still, down in the dirt with all the rest of them.  
  
He came around after a few minutes of Sam patting his cheek and yelling in his ear, Dean thumping his thigh with one fist, thump, thump, thump, setting up a steady, insistent rhythm without realizing he was doing it. Castiel rolled his head over, eyes flickering and dazed, and Dean saw right away.  
  
The last string had been cut. Castiel was one of them now.  
  
He was already crying when Sam took his shoulder and arm, pulled him up, when Dean put a hand on his back and steered him wavering out of the trees. The hunt was over and none of them cared.  
  
They're in an abandoned cabin sheltered under a smoky blue ridge surrounded by mist. The guy who lived here was a survivalist, smart guy, stocked up on the canned goods, plenty of guns and ammo, but the Croats got him anyway. It's a good place to hole up for a while.  
  
And Cas is still crying. He's sitting on the cold flagstone hearth, now, head bowed low to his chest as he sobs and sobs. His arms hang at his sides, as if doesn't know that when you cry you're supposed to cover your face and muffle it up. You're not supposed to let it show, but Castiel does. He lets it all hang out. There's a rawness, an honesty in that. It makes both Dean and Sam really uncomfortable.  
  
Sam hovered for a while, moving around Cas, sometimes reaching out as if to touch him and then drawing back, while the angel cried and cried. Now he's puttering in the quarter of the cabin that serves as a kitchen. Making soup, maybe. The cabin is all just one room, though, so it's not like they can get away from each other. Get away from that endless sobbing. Dean looks out the window and pretends he can, though.

Eventually he has to face the fact that this isn't going to stop until he does something about it.  
  
Dean's shoulders bow under the weight of a sigh, but he goes over to the empty fireplace and sits next to his sobbing friend. "Hey, Cas." He bumps the guy's flannel-clad shoulder, misses the trench coat that is long gone, abandoned soon after Cas quit being able to make himself look all neat and clean with just a thought. "Hey, it's not that bad, is it?"  
  
Cas sobs and wails. It's ugly, hoarse and wet, but still going strong. Tears and snot dribble down his nose and off his chin, and the front of his shirt is getting wet. Dean rests his wrists on his knees and looks straight ahead.  
  
"You're still...um....still alive?" he offers. "You've still got us. We'll look out for you. We will, Cas, you don't gotta worry about that."  
  
That, at least, gets a response. Castiel shakes his head back and forth, loose and jerky, mumbles something incomprehensible and gives Dean an incredulous look. Dean is thoroughly distracted by the snot bubble hanging off his nostril for a couple of seconds, but he shakes it off.  
  
"What, you don't believe me?" He puts some offense in his voice, trying to shake up the overwhelming atmosphere of gloom. "We will, Cas, you're gonna be fine. Really."  
  
"Mn't..." Castiel mumbles. He snorts up a great wad of phlegm, making Dean's throat ache in sympathy. Then he grabs his right cuff in his right hand to pull the sleeve straight and swipes it across his face, getting maybe a third of the profusion of fluids there. "'M not cryin' for m'self, Dean."  
  
"Um." Dean blinks. "What?"  
  
Castiel snuffles, drawing in a big, wet breath through his nose. Dean wordlessly takes the handkerchief from his pocket and hands it over. Cas never needed one before, never showed any signs of sweating or sneezing or any of the other things that make a body leak. Looks like they'll have to get him a package, now, next time they find a Wal-Mart that isn't totally looted.  
  
Cas takes the handkerchief and wipes up some more, trying to calm himself down. His breath still hitches, breaking up his words. "I just...never...understood b'fore. Not really."  
  
Sam's noises in the kitchen cease. Dean doesn't look up, but he hears his brother coming over, tentatively scuffing his shoes on the floor. "You've been feeling lots of stuff," Sam says softly.  
  
"Not like this. Always a...veil, however thin. Now it's gone." Cas rubs the handkerchief on his face, basically just smearing everything around. "S'much...so much suff'ring. In this world. You...you lost your mother and father and so many friends and... And Dean, you went to  _Hell_  for forty years and Sam...you missed Dean so much and...and I always knew what you felt but I never, I never..."  
  
And he breaks down sobbing again.  
  
Dean tips his head back against the fireplace, groaning in disbelief. Of course. Of  _course_  this is what it's all about. Freaking  _angel._  
  
He sees Sam, eyes liquid in sympathy, cross the remaining distance and sit on Castiel's other side, bumping his shoulder the way Dean did before. "You never understood. And now you do. All that angelic distance has been taken away and you're one of us and you get it, you really get it."  
  
Castiel nods blearily, tears rolling down his cheeks. He turns abruptly and buries his head in Sam's chest, wrapping his arms around the younger man's waist. The grip is tight and hard--Dean can see his brother grunt. But he wraps his arms around the nerdy-little-guy-who-no-longer-has-wings, tucking his chin down into the mess of dark hair.  
  
And, over Castiel's head, he glares at Dean. Just daring him to not do what's right.  
  
"Okay, okay," Dean grumbles. And he scoots over and puts his arms around their crying, sobbing, wailing, very moist no-longer angel, too.  
  
They sit by the cold, empty fireplace. Sam's soup boils over and the sunlight fades outside the window and they sit there.  
  
They sit for a long time.


End file.
